Somnium Dulcis
by ChottoMatte
Summary: When Demyx is an abused foster child, and Zexion is a misunderstood violinist with a self-harm problem, can they find solace in one another? COMPLETE. THANKS, GUYS.
1. Chapter 1

Zexion sat in the back of the loud, cheerful classroom, fiddling with the buttons on his fleece jacket and watching his classmates interact. He'd exhausted himself last night, staying awake and pouring text onto reams of paper, composing his symphony of words. He documented his life in this manner, hoping one day he could come back and read this, and laugh at the impossibility of such crushing sorrow, the sinking feeling of being a nonentity, a nothing, a nobody. Someday he'd be new, and someday he'd be normal.

He toed his violin case, lying at his feet, and he resisted the urge to just grab it and play. The need for music was his favorite pain, slow and molten in his core as it suffused him with a mad desire. He wondered what his peers, quietly and studiously listening to the droning monotony of their newly arrived teacher, would think if he picked up his violin and played, here and now, with the selfsame reckless abandon he'd not allowed himself to feel for so very long. He quashed the urge and moved his restless hands to his lap, fingering strings in his mind as his teacher taught him something he already knew.

x

He'd fought the urge all day, and, declining a ride home from his 'friends' he locked himself in the deserted music room as the rest of the school struggled its way through eighth period without him. He pulled his well-loved violin out of its dark, wooden prison and laid it across his lap as he shuffled through his books to find blank sheets of paper pens, and sheet music. He set his messenger bag on the seat next to him in the long, empty row and tried to breathe deeply. He was feeling jittery, his knee bouncing energetically as he fought to calm himself down. He sat in silence for endless seconds, and started playing.

x

He was engrossed in the music, and the silence of the deserted hallway afforded him no distraction. He was rudely jolted from his abysmal reverie when he heard the sound of a locker slamming in the middle of the period. He continued to play, hearing the sound of the bathroom door being violently shut. He held the same note for a long second, and strained his ears over the noise of his music. He heard water running through the ancient pipes, and he stopped his song. Swiftly placing his violin within its velvet-lined case, he swung his bag over his shoulder, took the case, and snuck down the hall. The quiet padding of his feet was nearly imperceptible, but he didn't want to risk making much noise in the too-silent hallway. The bathroom door displayed a blatant lie, 'Bathroom closed for cleaning,' and he eased the door open carefully. The squeak of rusty hinges on the ancient door betrayed his entry, and he scanned the bathroom carefully, listening like an owl. Wary, but satisfied that there was probably no one in there with him, he sighed and relaxed.

He shuffled across the bathroom, pushing open the second to last door and relishing in the loud crash, and resounding echoes that reverberated around the room. He closed it gently, feeling remorseful, balanced his violin case on the close-lidded toilet and opened the ragged zipper pocket of his messenger bag.

He gingerly extracted the only sharp tool he had on him, an ancient Swiss army knife. He hadn't planned on this, hadn't had the precognizant thought to bring his regular arsenal. The satisfying scrape of metal against metal soothed his ragged nerves, assuaged the throbbing of his migraine He pulled up his left sle4eve, the milk-white skin in gorgeous contrast to the deep sable of his shirt. He admired the complimentary vision, and steadied his right hand, drawing the blade slowly across flesh. He cut shallowly, superficially, loving the moment of shock and incredulity his body registered before sending out small beads of blood, almost as an afterthought. He let a low moan escape his clenched lips, reveling in the tingle of the contact of cold steel on warm, soft skin, how it sent shivers down his spine and fed straight into the fire pooling just below his stomach.

He hissed as the blade bit too deeply, his nerves crying out in protest. He swabbed up the now free-flowing blood and moved the blade to the opposite arm. He pushed up his sleeve with a gentle hand, and in his haste he cut too deeply again. The pain overwhelmed the pleasure and a tidal wave of hurt overwhelmed his brain, and he cried out quietly. He stood, silent and careful for a few seconds longer, calming himself and surveying the damage.

The one on his right arm would barely hinder him, but the one on the left would need some sort of stitches when he got home. He admired the latticework of the myriad scars from his forearms to the palms of his hands, and he sighed. He flicked the knife shut again, the satisfying scrape no longer sending any expectant tingles through his body. He slipped it back into the pocket of his bag and gently opened the stall door again. He snagged his violin case off the toilet seat and moved over to the sinks. He rinsed the blood carefully, drying his arms and pulling bandages from a hidden pocket in his bag. He sterilized and bound the wound with the ease of great practice, and endless repetition. He was just moving to cap his bottle of rubbing alcohol as the door to the last stall flew open, smacking against the wall with a resounding smash. A boy stormed out of the tiny cubicle, and Zexion moved to pull his arms into the fleecy black safety of his jacket. and endless repetition. He was just moving to cap his bottle of rubbing alcohol as the door to the last stall flew open, smacking against the wall with a resounding smash. A boy stormed out of the tiny cubicle, and Zexion moved to pull his arms into the fleecy black safety of his jacket. He felt his eyes involuntarily widen, and his jaw dropped imperceptibly. The sheer amount of wounds on the blonde boy, taller than him by nearly a foot, was almost astonishing, and even through the angry grimace he could tell the boy was in pain.

He assessed the damage with a trained eye, noting that some scars were old and faded while the angry gashes and bruises seemed new – too new. He moved, silent as a ghost, to this mystery boy's side, gently pulling him to the sinks, moving to doctor these wounds.

His vision was tinted red with anger as he delicately cleaned the tortured flesh, until his alcohol-soaked cotton swabs were no longer pink with blood. He disposed of them carefully, cloaking them in wadded paper towels. He wrapped the worst parts of the boy's waist, chest, and arms in gauze, making sure it wouldn't be visible to the naked eye when he was wearing what Zexion assumed to be the wadded-up aqua blue t-shirt in his clenched hands. He snaked the wrinkled cloth carefully over the coiffed blonde mohawk, gingerly settling the shirt over the boy's bandaged midsection.

His hair fell in his eyes as the put his products away, an he sighed inwardly. The boy reached for Zexion's arms, brushing his fingers over the again-exposed bandages. He pushed the sleeves up past his elbows and searched out the end of Zexion's own piece of tightly wound gauze. Zexion winced as the bandage was unwrapped, cringing when the fibers that had stuck to his wounds with dried blood were pulled free, and watched in awe as the boy silently cried for him. He gently traced the marks with cool fingers, undermining the pride and self-assurance Zexion had gotten from hurting himself up to that moment. Zexion knew how it was to be abused, to hurt without reason, but he'd never been able to empathize with someone like this complete stranger.

He held back his own tears as the blonde gingerly put his arm back together. The mysterious stranger kissed him once, on the thin, pale, pulse point of his wrist, before shouldering his own backpack and leaving the bathroom, taking his fake door-sign with him. Zexion stood alone, quiet and estranged in the empty room, echoes of the bright, sad boy still lapping at his ear like the tide on a beach. He pulled his own messenger bag onto his sore should and hefted his instrument, following the blonde into the silent desertion of a high-school hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

Demyx shifted in his chair absentmindedly, ignoring the glare of he teacher as he strove to find comfort in the hard plastic of his assigned seat. He could feel every bruise, every bump, every cut and scrape along the length of his body with a terrifying sense of clarity, and vaguely wondered if he had a concussion. He knew he'd have time, during his extended lunch period, to bandage himself up if need me, but this pleasant though was interrupted by and odd feeling of pain, and of wetness on his lower back.

'Shit.' He thought, hissing under his breath as he discovered that one of his wounds had reopened and was swiftly on its way to bleeding through his thin t-shirt. He excused himself quickly, flitting through the open door and ignoring the teacher's disgruntled cry. He fled to the bathrooms nearest his locker, spinning his combo lock and opening the door loudly, pulling out the sign he'd made for these occasions – 'Bathroom closed for cleaning.' Pasting this on the door, he locked the room from the inside and pulled off his shirt. Or at least, he thought he locked it. With this ancient door he could never be sure if it would stay shut or not. A few red drops, not noticeable enough to cause undue alarm, showed brightly through the pale aqua-blue cloth. He pulled a wad of paper toweling from the rusty dispenser, wetting it and wadding it into a ball. Demyx carefully dabbed at the 6inch gash on his back, hesitantly skirting the puckered edges of the already-healing wound. He'd meant to hide the knives somewhere, after school, but his father had gotten to them before he'd even walked in the door.

He noticed a pause in the melancholy violin's playing that came from far down the hall, and tensed while he waited for it to resume. He could hear faint footsteps padding down the hall, and he wanted to cross his fingers, to hold his breath until they went away.

The only warning he had was the squeaking of rusty hinges on the broken-locked bathroom door, and he scrambled to shove his makeshift first aid operation into his backpack, to hide until the ignorant usurper went away. He'd hidden in the far stall, the one with a broken door you had to hold shut with your feet, and hid crouched on the toilet seat, muscles tensed and ready to fly. He heard a shuffling of soft footsteps, and realized dully that he was still shirtless. He couldn't risk moving and making a noise, so he sat and waited and sweated, frustrated by his powerlessness. The door to the stall next to his thudded open as someone pushed it with reckless force, and slid shut softly, as if in repentance.

Demyx heard the sound of a zipper being pulled, a metallic grating as something flicked open, like a switchblade or a Swiss army knife, and then no sound at all. For several endless seconds the silence was absolute, Demyx breathing gently and straining his ears to hear what was happening. He heard a low moan, a quiet hiss, and then the sound ended abruptly again. Then a faint rustling, like shirtsleeves being pushed out of the way, and another delicate little hiss. He waited another endless moment and heard the metallic click of a blade closing, of a zipper being drawn, and the door thudding back open. He stood warily, still perched precariously on the toilet seat, and he looked out over the door. A smaller boy with a violin case beside him and a messenger bacg slung carelessly over his shoulder was rinsing something off his arm, delicately adjusting the water to no more than a tepid trickle. Demyx froze, chills running up and down his spine, as he saw the water in the sink.

Blood ran, swirling like fire-flower as it gurgled down the drain, and Demyx watched in awe as the boy removed bandages and rubbing alcohol from his bag, sterilizing and binding the marks on his wrist with smooth, practiced movements. The blonde saw a latticework of scars, old and new, faded and pink like mischievous wrinkles. So the boy cut himself for the hell of it, the thrill? Demyx filled with a trance-like anger, clambering loudly and haphazardly off his roost and yanking open the door to his stall.

The smaller boy startled as he heard the loud noise, pulling his scarred arms into the fleecy lining of his oversized jacket and moving surreptitiously to hide the makeshift operation behind him. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped as he took in the blonde's appearance – scars, wounds, purplish bruises left a pattern of terror along his neck, his chest and arms. Marks like purple fingerprints around his neck, a circle of bruise, evidence of attempted strangulation. The little boy moved wordlessly to Demyx's side, pulling him gingerly to the counter with one hand barely touching his arm. He positioned him in front the mirror, grabbed his bag of cotton balls and swabs, and went to work.

He cleaned up the wounds gently, careful to avoid causing excess pain. Once his scars were clean and pink, lacerations and slashes throbbing dully and smarting at the cool air, the mysterious boy wrapped Demyx in gauze and bandages and gently tucked in all the loose ends, the rolls of cloth covering him and holding him together. He took Demyx's shirt from him and eased it gently over his gel-stiffened hair, pulling it loosely over his wide shoulders, the too-big garment thankfully not rubbing against sensitive skin. The boy, blue hair obscuring his face while he packaged up his products, merely shrugged off the blonde's hand when he reached for his scarred arms. Demyx kept his hold and pulled him closer.

The pushed the fleecy soft sleeves even farther up the skinny arms and searched for the end of the gauze, unwrapping it smoothly and wincing sympathetically when fibers stuck to blood stuck to skin, making the brutal slashes sting anew. He surveyed the damage like a general at battlefield, empty of anything but sorrow and desolate loneliness. He traced the old wounds with soft, hesitant movements, index finger meandering down paths and twists. He cried over each cut, careful not o let salty tears touch raw, angry skin. He slowly rolled the wrappings back over the sad, thin arm, re-tucking the end gently and laying one small kiss on the pale, thin wrist before shouldering his own backpack and escaping back to the quiet, monotonous haven that was education. If he succeeded here, he could be free.


	3. Chapter 3

He passed him in the hallways between classes, gracefully breezing past and maintaining his stiff, aloof façade. They didn't meet in the bathroom again – Zexion was careful to avoid that hall entirely, practicing his music at home instead of at school. He heard lockers slamming, ancient doors creaking shut, but he restrained himself and reined in his curiosity, his desire to spend time with his mystery boy again. When tried to stop cutting himself for a week, the experiment ended in failure and more horrific injury than he had anticipated. Without the strangely comforting thought of the blonde boy in his mind, he couldn't achieve the same release he once had when he heard the grating snap of a knife flicking open. Zexion stayed up at all hours, lying on his bed with his violin's bow in his hands, running the soft string over his wrists and wishing it would hurt him without him forcing it to.

His mother dragged him to church every Wednesday, every Sunday, praying for his 'misguided soul' and trying to 'force the devil out.' He read these amusing quotes from the weekly bulletins passed around during the service, detailing exactly how Jesus would save him, how believing in God could make his pain fade. Zexion knew his pain was more than spiritual – he was defeated, body, mind, and soul. He woke up in the mornings thinking the world had turned gray, his fuzzy half-conscious teenage mind telling him that he had to get up and face the world when really all he wanted to do was curl into a little ball and cry. But no tears ever came. It was as if he was broken, his emotions running haywire, so out of control that he couldn't feel them anymore.

He stumbled through month after month, eating, sleeping, doing homework and writing, putting the finishing touches on his senior thesis and lying down every night feeling emptier than the night before. Fall passed without much fanfare, though he took notice of the blood-red leaves on trees, matching the new scars on his arms, as he walked home from school in late November.

Winter was dull and droll, a shapeless whiteness blotting out the landscape and, thankfully, giving Zexion less to focus on. He saw the heaps of snow, feet deep like sand dunes, and his mind was thankfully blank and quiet. He liked winter. No one questioned him wearing long sleeves in the winter.

Zexion walked to and from his school every day, thick winter boots protecting his feet from the worst of the chill. He was walking to his house, a few blocks from the main center of town and set far back on its lot, wide lawn needing attention and sidewalk needing shoveling, when he saw a flash of golden yellow over the hedges he walked past. He stopped and walked back, peering through the gap in the dense, piney bush, and spied the boy, his bathroom acquaintance, cutting across an open lot to the next street over.

He pushed his snow-laden blue hair out of his eyes, making a mental note to buy more dye at the drugstore next time he went for bandages, and slipped through the bushes to follow the boy. He didn't know what possessed him to follow the comforting figure, he was drawn like a grey moth to a bright light and he was tethered by an invisible string to this boy, this mystery, this enigma.

The walk got abruptly harder, heaps of snow lacking shoveling piled higher and higher as they walked further and further into the cold outreaches of town, passing the high-rises and condos, Zexion's own house, and then the more disreputable part of town was all around them and the boy in front of him relaxed. Zexion took advantage of a pause in the boy's stride, seemingly searching for a key, and emptied his boots of the accumulated snow. The blonde hung his backpack on the fence outside the house he was in front of, so Zexion deduced he wouldn't be staying long. He hunkered down in his fleecy coat and waited.

After 15 minutes of bone-chilling cold and a sudden downpour of freezing rain, the blonde boy walked back out of the house, lugging with him a seemingly heavy bag, brown paper handles straining under the weight of what they contained. Zexion had a strange urge to run and help him carry it, but stayed back, far behind, observing and biding his time. The boy was lopsided, listing to the side as he fought to balance the weight of the bag and the weight of his backpack as he stumbled down icy streets.

They walked for another mile, perhaps, until the handles of the bag broke. It hit the snow with a dull 'thump' even Zexion could hear from his hidey-hole a hundred yards back, and a myriad of cans and bottles spilled out. At least half the space in the bag must have been taken up by alcohol, he calculated, and the rest of it by a strange assortment of canned fruits and vegetables, boxes of dry pasta, and a couple of wry-looking potatoes.

Zexion could hear the boy's curses even through the muffling, blinding curtain of snow and watched regretfully as he crammed as much of the alcohol and food into his backpack and left the rest of it in the snow, dusted by a light powder of pure white. He continued on his arduous trek, and as Zexion passed the remainder of the bag's spilled contents he stuffed them into his own messenger bag, not wanting them to go to waste.

After another 45 minutes of silent stalking, the blonde boy turned a sharp corner and walked up a driveway Zexion hadn't noticed before, a mile out of town and obscured by snowfall. He could make out the shape of a house at the end of the drive, and he knew his journey neared its end. The boy trudged up the gravel-and-snow path, which looked to be recently shoveled or plowed, and pulled his keys out of his pocket.

He fumbled with them for a few seconds, cold-numbed fingers bumbling past the key he wanted to grasp, before locating it and shoving it rudely into the lock on the door. The door creaked as it opened and shut, rusty hinges disrupting the perfect silence of the countryside. Zexion saw a light turn on, in the farthest corner of the small house, and walked up to the door. They were miles from school, and he knew no one would see him out here unless they came out the door, right on top of him. He put his ear to the door, listening and feeling foolish.

Then the yelling started. He heard a young voice – it must be the boy's – and then a crash. A man's roar, deeper than the voice before, resounded around the small house and made the windows vibrate with force, and then it was silent. Zexion was in shock for a few seconds – coldly analytical and disbelieving, he pulled the cans and the booze out of his bag and sat them on the front step, backing away slowly. He stared at the silent house, eerily quiet now, and turned. He ran home.

x

Zexion's mother questioned him when he got home, not believing his hastily concocted excuse of being at a friend's house, and he just brushed her off. He sprinted up the stairs into his room, shutting the door as carefully as he could and picking his way across the mounds of papers that littered his floor. Pushing his blue covers off his bed, he lifted up the corner of his mattress and grabbed the little black bag in which he kept his razor. He ran, quickly and silently, to the back door and let himself outside again.

It got even colder as the darkness set in, the night black and star-studded, beautiful and deadly. He ran, nearly sprinting, the entirety of the few miles back to the blonde's little house in the country, obscured by even more snow but unmistakable on the barren landscape. Zexion stole quietly to the front door, his breath making clouds in the cold air as he fought to catch his breath.

The cans and bottles were gone, but their imprint was still fresh, meaning they'd been left out for a while. He sighed as he thought of the food, frozen solid, and moved to the left, to peek into the window. He pushed his blue hair aside and snuck a look inside, and was dully surprised by what he saw. The blonde boy, his secret friend, humming and making dinner. He had a tawdry apron on, sequins running around the edges, and he was moving like a dancer as he stirred and poured, pirouetting from counter to counter.

There were fresh bruises on his arms, sore-looking red marks that would surely be purple by the next morning, and Zexion sighed in sympathy. He watched wistfully as the blonde took a plate of mystery noodles into the living room adjacent to the kitchen, presumably feeding the man who had hurt him.

Zexion turned away from the window, walking down the long drive in silence. Half way down, he remembered what he was there to do. He walked back to the front door, and laid the bag with his razors in it on the front step. He looked at the little black package, and turned away. Without turning back, he walked the long walk home.

x

He came back to the little house every night that week, watching carefully. His mother stopped questioning him about his whereabouts. Zexion settled into a comfortable pattern, and was relieved to see that the extra food he'd taken to leaving on the blonde's doorstep was helping out as much as it was. The boy was putting on more muscles, and his ribs were slightly less visible through the fabric of his shirts. He smiled more, and his hair glimmered in the fluorescent lighting of their school.

Zexion, hesitant to engage the boy in any kind of conversation, kept his distance. He knew that the boy would have figured the identity of his secret benefactor out, seeing as Zexion had left a memento of their only time together on his steps. The blonde acknowledged him only once, when he was carrying his violin case and backpack into the music room, which he'd started to use again only the week before. He strode up to him, a bit self-conscious if the blush on his face was any indicator, and kissed him on the cheek.

Zexion didn't see him again until the school year was nearly over.


	4. Chapter 4

Zexion stumbled down the narrow streets, weighted down by one _very_ large box of books. The end of senior year was drawing nigh, and he'd begun to clear all of his personal effects from the school premises. He'd gathered book upon book from disgruntled teens and distraught librarians, reluctant and resistant to relinquishing their literature. Zexion's locker was bleak and sparse, now containing only the bare necessities needed to ford his way through the deep, treacherous waters of general ignorance.

He smiled a private smile as he walked home, inwardly delighted by the fact that his last days of boring old public high school were at last drawing to a close. The cardboard edges of the hefty box were digging into his sore arms like chainsaws into a resilient, fleshy tree trunk, infuriating corrugated serrations driving him insane as he shifted the weight from arm to arm and back again. He'd only three blocks left to walk, but two of them were the too-long city blocks he'd come to dread on the trudge home, the monotony broken only by a massive intersection filled with buzzing, angry drivers and old ladies taking too much time crossing the road.

Zexion's arms burned dully as he paused at a street corner, hefting the books a bit higher and tip-toeing around the accumulated detritus of the city. His scars had faded in the months past, now only pink lines and pale stripes, and he was overjoyed at this private victory. He'd not seen 'blondie,' as he'd taken to calling his mystery boy, in over a week. Zexion was worried, but not terrified, seeing as the boy's friends acted as if nothing was amiss. The snow had thawed and the days got longer, forcing Zexion to sneak out of the house later and later to avoid detection. Two weeks ago he'd almost been caught – he was just sticking the last can down on the worn cement step when he'd heard a loud shout – presumably 'the man' of the house – and he'd taken off running, practically flying down the driveway, thankful that the spring rain was heavy enough he was obscured as he made his escape. Zexion had been more careful even since – only wearing black when he went out, doing it in the dead of night so as not to be seen, sneaking quickly in and out.

He hummed a song of his own concoction under his breath, wondering where his blonde could be and loving the feeling of the worn soles of his shoes meandering down rough, uneven sidewalks and taking comfort in the fact he was alone. He'd grown to treasure the solace he found in walking all over town, and he no longer rolled out of bed in the morning just wishing he could go back to sleep. The unobtrusive boy pushed his newly-re-dyed blue hair out of his eyes and crossed a crosswalk with little trouble, almost in sight of the street his house was on, but tripped on something sticking out from the dirty brick wall of the building he was walking past. Zexy and his box went sprawling on the pavement, books flying through the air like paper birds before settling, helter-skelter and discombobulated as they smacked the ground as well. He picked himself up carefully, only his palms smarting from the unexpected date with the ground. He picked the gravel out of the shallow scrapes, comfortable now on the cool sidewalk's slabs of concrete, and looked over to see what he had tripped on.

It appeared to be a stick of some sort, thick, with a shoe on the end and a thin, bundled-up teen on the other end. Belatedly Zexion realized - it was a person He hastily moved toward them, intending to apologize for and damage caused and go on his merry way again. Fate would not have this, persnickety bitch she is. It was the blonde, the boy, his friend, his project, the one lost for a week and now found again, here, on the hard, unforgiving ground a block from his house.

Zexion pushed the fair hair out of the boy's eyes, just to make sure, and the nearly catatonic teen didn't move an inch or say a word. He pulled the thin jacket from the emaciated frame, alarmed at the scars he'd discovered on the boy's face and keen to make sure he wasn't too severely injured,

He was appalled by what he discovered. The boy was covered head to toe in slashes and cuts, crude and ugly, wide and sore and untreated. He must've been in a world of pain. Zexion peeled away the jacket even farther, and inhaled sharply. There were what looked to be…childishly carved _words_ littering the frail boy's arms and sides, dirty, hateful slurs carved using a sharp knife as a quill, blood as ink, and human flesh itself as a sick, pale parchment. He picked up the bag next to the small figure and peeked inside, making sure it was the boy's, and investigated. There were wads of what looked to be paper, bound in rubber bands, and clothing wadded in the very bottom of the bag. The tag on the side read 'Demyx,' so that was who he must've been…

Zexion was nearly overwhelmed by the smell of blood as he helped Demyx to his feet. He wasn't sure how the boy was alive at the moment, considering the sheer amount of blood loss – it was astounding. He swayed as he stood, stumbling down the sidewalk as Zexion held him up, books forgotten on the pavement behind them.

x

Zexion had a peculiar sense of deja-vu, pulling the boy silently past the living room where his mother was watching a car chase on the television, up the stairs to the bathroom, and stationing him on the lidded toilet. He ran water in the sink, warm enough to clean but not hot enough to scald, before pulling his Red Cross first-aid kit out from below the sink again, as he'd done so many times before. As he cleaned the mound of plasters and bandages by his side dwindled dramatically, the slices and stabs and gashes covered in a thick layer of care-bear Band-Aids and gauze. Demyx made only one noise the entire time, a small and helpless whimper when Zexion moved to pull his pants down, to get a the wounds underneath. The boy practically quivered, nerves undoubtedly strung as tight as a bow, shaking violently and then eerily still.

Zexion left him alone for a moment as he raced downstairs to the kitchen, grabbing a tub of leftover spaghetti, a fork, and a bottle of water. He got back up to the too-quiet bathroom to find the boy nearly asleep as he leaned against the wall, and he set the food on the bathroom counter while he investigated the discarded messenger bag.

It ended up containing several large bundles of $100 bills, undoubtedly secreted away over an unimaginable amount of time span, waiting for an opportunity for freedom. He heard the bathroom door close and looked over- the boy had moved to shut it. Zexion was glad that he wasn't completely out of it. A few minutes later he heard the sink running, and the door opened softly. Out stumbled the blonde, the sad little shape drifting across the hall and into Zexion's bedroom.

Zexion tucked Demyx, the boy, the blonde angel of the street under the thick comforter he'd dug out of his closet, bottom bunk of the bed-structure full of boy and bandage.

He left clothes that may fit at the bottom of the bed, for when the boy woke, and moved himself to the bathroom. He ritualistically put himself to bed as well, brushing his hair and teeth before flicking the lights off. He walked the length of his home, obsessive-compulsively checking windows and doors for security. Zexion stole back into his bedroom in the dark, careful to be silent, disturbing only the dust motes floating in the air as he tip-toed over to the bed containing the small, frail boy.

He stared for a few long seconds, the electricity from the newly-unleashed thunderstorm outside illuminating the chamber in great flashes and bursts, shining white-blue on the beatific sleeping face. Zexion leaned down, kissed Demyx on the cheek. He whispered in his ear-

"Sweet Dreams."

X

X

X

A/N- So? Was it okay?


	5. Chapter 5

A/N- Heeeey theeerrreee. Sorry this took so long - I had to write it before posting it...unlike the first four, where I amassed a huge pile of documents and then posted all at once -.- This is the best story I've written, in my opinion, and I have more reviews than ever - thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I treasure each and every little missve typed to me like my own children - you guys make the world better -.- Anyway. I have 7 pages of Ch.6 written - look forward to it soon. This is my longest chapter EVER! Be grateful.I love you all!0ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0

Demyx woke with a start. An unfamiliar room surrounded him and he was staring at an alarm clock he'd never seen before. Belatedly he wondered why it was flashing erratically, but he was too scared out of his mind to ponder it for long. He was sore all over and nearly too stiff to move, but he was alive, and he seemed safe. He listened intently for a few seconds, comforted by the supposed emptiness of the room. He sat up slowly and haltingly - every few seconds he felt a muscle throb or twinge - and he exhaled slowly as he propped himself against the headboard. He looked around again, less disoriented than before, and took note of his surroundings.

Demyx was in what looked to be a large bedroom, walls blank but with a neatly organized bookshelf and a tidy desk/dresser against the opposite wall. He could hear the clashing of pots and pans from the open door of the room and he relaxed against the comfortable wood behind him. He reached an (ouch ouch sore sore) arm up to feel his messy blonde hair, now deflated from a night of restless sleep, and thought back as hard as he possibly could to what happened in the past few days.

_Flashback_

He walked into his kitchen on a Wednesday, nearly two weeks ago now, with his arms full of cans and bottles. The extra booze supply had his father in a better mood than ever. Demyx got down on his knees in front of the pantry, moving the older cans to the back and arranging the newer ones in front, a line off sentinels to make any general proud. He'd start dinner after he finished the laundry, he planned, so his father could finish the bottle of whiskey he was nursing and calm himself down.

Demyx thought the house had been unnaturally quiet all evening, but he wasn't about to miss this golden opportunity for a little peace. He could hear the muted noises of a football game through the open laundry room door, and the lull of the washer's rickety rocking was putting him to sleep. He could see the rain coming down in torrents and wondered if his mysterious visitor had stopped by yet.

He'd developed a system of taking one day's gifts and hiding them away on his room for the rest of the day and night, either sneaking the food into the cupboards in the dead of night or just waiting until his father was too drunk to notice, like today.

Demyx knew that even though his father was completely smashed he'd be going out eventually, so he resolved to go out and check after he finished his folding. In his humming-twirling-sorting reverie he didn't notice the shadow darting past the window, he missed the sound of his father getting up, didn't hear the sound of the front door being unlocked.

Demyx did however hear his father's scream of rage, and he cowered instinctively. He saw someone run down the driveway through the window beside him, and could practically smell the rain outside. He surmised that his shadow-helper had finally been caught in the act, and he cringed at the thought of his dad's reaction. Demyx tried to melt into the wall behind him, too frightened to move as he heard the sound of footsteps.

His father filled the doorway entirely, the effect of the broad shoulders and imposing height was dulled by his glassy stare and accumulated fat. His beer gut poked out the bottom of his graying wife beater - Ironic. His breath reeked, and the gusts were so close that every time the man exhaled he blew hair back from his son's face.

The tips of Demyx's hair quivered as the man got closer, pushing his chest against him and effectively barring his escape.

"What do you know about this?" he held up a shiny can Demyx hadn't noticed in his grasp. The label was soaked and nearly peeling off, but Demyx saw the word 'Cor-' poking out between the meaty fingers, and focused on it as he replied.

"I don't know anything about it." his voice was quiet and careful, but not even his best acting could have fooled his father.

It took a moment for those thick fingers to release the can and wrap themselves around Demyx's windpipe, and the boy's head smacked painfully against the wall as he was pushed up against it. "You don't know anything about this, huh?" His father leered. "I bet you don't." His feeble attempt at sarcasm fell flat in the tense room, and he slowly loosened his iron grasp. "I'm watching you."

Demyx resisted the urge to massage his throat, to show weakness. "Yes, sir."

It had only gotten worse from there, his father's renewed nightly beatings left him so weak that after a week he had to stop going to school. Makeup could only conceal so much, and there were too many over-concerned teachers at that school, wary and cautious, overbearingly concerned even. After he stopped attending class, the beatings only got worse. No day went by without him fearing for his safety. His father was sick of having him around the house all the time, and took it out on him with frightening frequency. A week, an entire week he stayed home, his condition worsening with each passing day.

Demyx came home from a walk, late in the afternoon, a week after leaving school. His father must have acquired some money in the interim, he was deep in a bottle of scotch and nearly passed out on the couch. The stench of sweat and alcohol was as strong as ever, so Demyx inferred the man had been sleeping off and enormous quantity of booze for most of the day. He tiptoed into the kitchen, exhausted from his walk, and started in on the seemingly-endless laundry. This time, however, the blonde didn't miss the noise of the ancient recliner creaking and an old man heaving himself unsteadily to his feet.

Demyx exhaled slowly, knowing what was coming. The man lumbered into the small laundry room, reeking to high heavens and heaving breathlessly. Demyx merely stared up at him, eyes cowed but flashing defiance.

"You have to be taught a good lesson, boy." he turned and went into the kitchen for a few precious seconds, coming back with small, sharp knives in either hand. "And I'm your new teacher. Take your shirt off." He leered lecherously as Demyx did as he was told, as he prepared himself for what could most likely lead to his death.

End Flashback

All he remembered from then on was blinding pain, getting clothes, and running away, and coming to this mysterious blue-haired boy's house. He stretched his arms above the bed and heard the satisfying shift and pop as his bones settled in place. He swung his stiff legs over the side of the low bed, planted his feet firmly on the cool wooden floor. Levering himself off the soft mattress took more effort than he had anticipated, and he was nearly breathless by the time he managed to lean himself against the nearby wall.

Dem was lightheaded, felt faint, and had to wait a solid minute before he could open his eyes and look around. He saw a tree, out the window to his left, and smiled at the birds he saw roosting there as he absentmindedly fixed his own bird's-nest hair. He turned back to the bed and was greeted with a face. Blue hair covered the pillow like a pillowcase, long and haywire and soft-looking.

The boy in front of him grumbled and moved around, readjusting and sighing. Demyx watched him for a few seconds longer, taking in his facial features. He was cute, that was certain, and it wasn't like he hadn't seen him in school, but Demyx hadn't had a chance to get this close to him in a long time. He noticed a previously unseen splatter of freckles across the thin nose, a small scar above his left eyebrow…speaking of scars…

Demyx had immediately known what that black bag on his doorstep was, once he'd opened it. The glint of metal and the tang of disinfectant disturbed him, but he hoped he understood the symbolism correctly. The boy had his arms under his covers, however, so

Demyx would have to play investigator. He stood on what he now thought of as 'his' bed and looked at the situation from this new, higher vantage point.

The blue-haired boy's arms were still entwined in the sheets and blankets, wrapped so tightly he couldn't tell where one ended and another started. He reached over, quiet as wind, and pulled on the covers. One of the arms twitched and he pulled back quickly. This continued, the repetition of sneak, pull, run, until, when the blankets had been almost fully pulled away, Demyx heard a voice.

It was just a faint whisper, faint but still there. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" the voice was delicate, but the hard edge of irritation caught him off guard.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Demyx debated his next course of action for a few seconds, before darting his cold hands under what was left of the blanket and pulling out the now-warm, thin arms. He turned them over and examined the undersides, from the crease of his elbows to the emaciated little wrists.

The skin there was pale and smooth, and only faint glimmers of scar tissue remained, the sole reminder of the violence of times past, but he didn't get much of a chance to examine more thoroughly. The bluenette hurriedly pulled his arms back, his mind automatically warning him not to let anyone see, and he fixed Demyx with an icy glare. The blonde managed to hold his gaze for nearly a solid minute, before busting out in laughter.

"That face! You're trying so hard to be scary, aren't you?"

His blue-haired savior ignored him stiffly, pushing himself into a sitting position and groaning, absolutely exhausted. "What time is it?" Demyx recalled the manically flashing clock by his bedside, and just shrugged, quirking his head to the side, before replying. " 'm not sure. Seems pretty early, but someone's up in the kitchen." he eyed the bluenette warily, before hauling himself onto the top bunk as well. "So, mystery man, what's your name? I'm Demyx. I like water, smiling, and other boys. How 'bout you?" he was rambling nervously, still unnerved by his new blue-pal's icy death glare, and started fidgeting with his hair and glancing around the room.

He opened his mouth to word-vomit more, but an icy finger sealed his lips and made him blush. The bluenette rolled his head, cracking his vertebrae, before settling back down into the comfort of his pillows. His voice was weary as he spoke. "My name is Zexion. This is my house, and that's my mother making breakfast, which leads me to believe it is between 6:30 and 7 am. I like books, sweet foods, and **quiet** boys." He shot a pointed glare at Demyx. "I left some clothes for you at the foot of your bed, the bathroom is right across the hall. We'll talk over breakfast."

Zexion's lack of concern lessened Demyx's worries, and he ventured to the bathroom with a new sense of self-assurance. The woman in the hall barely batted an eyelash as he walked past her, pausing only to hand him a soft towel and instruct him that the bathtub's hot water handle had to be wiggled to work. He stared at her retreating back as she walked off, and felt a profound sense of longing for a woman like her in his life. He just shook his head then, and opened the bathroom door quietly.

X

Demyx emerged half an hour later, scrubbed pink and smelling faintly of strawberries. His raw skin stung on contact with the too-chilly hall air, but it was a small price to pay for washing off the grime of his night on the street. Lacking hair gel, the blonde let his hair dry flat and straight, liking the change of feeling and the breezy sensation of hair against his cheeks.

He darted across the hallway to Zexion's room, having forgotten the clothes and as such clad only in a towel. He opened the door stealthily, and nearly dropped his towel when he scrambled to shut it. Demyx tried to forget the mental image of the (appealing?) naked Zexion he'd stumbled upon, and jumped a solid foot in the air when the door opened a moment later and a pile of clothing was pushed through the narrow opening.

Demyx was a but shaken by this eerie display of normality, and extreme 180 from what he'd gone through a short while ago, and felt himself become more morose and pessimistic as he slid the unfamiliar clothing on. Thoughts of police involvement, living on the street, his angry father, and dropping out of high school all raced through his head with a frightening sense of reality, and he shuddered involuntarily as he leaned his weary head against the bathroom door. After a moment of silent contemplation, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a faint knock shook the eerie bathroom door, and he hurried to open it.

Zexion eyed him critically for a moment before his face broke out in a carefree smile that Demyx had never had the privilege of seeing before. "Good. The clothes fit." Demyx stared back for a few seconds, before he let a single sob escape his throat. He sank to the floor slowly, shaking and crying. Zexion looked at him in alarm for a few infinite seconds, before sinking to his knees and putting his arms awkwardly around the boy.

Demyx immediately latched onto the source of human companionship, and Zexion found himself running his absentminded fingers through blonde hair as he rocked the boy.

The cries and shaking slowly subsided, and the two were left in a symbolic embrace, neither willing to let go. Demyx sighed, his face pressed against Zexion's chest and murmured, "Thank you."

"No problem. Feeling better?" Zexion whispered, face pressed against Demyx's soft hair.

"Yeah. It's just- It's a shock.. I-I can't believe it really happened, I'm out of there." his voice was barely audible, but the disbelief Zexion heard loud and clear. He held the boy a little tighter, crushing Demyx to himself for a few seconds, before untangling their limbs and getting to his feet gingerly. Demyx heaved a final sigh before accepting Zexion's proffered hand, standing up slowly and following the bluenette down the hall.

The atmosphere of Zexion's kitchen was eerily cheerful. His kind, busy looking mother bustled around madly, making breakfast for the two hungry boys as they chatted at the table. She thumped down huge plates, full of steaming-hot pancakes, and sat down across from Zexion. Demyx could feel her assessing stare all through the meal, but that was to be expected. When the trio had all finished and pushed their plates away she leaned her chair back on two legs and spoke.

"My name is Yuffie. I understand you've got some troubles at home, so I'll let you stay here until we have this whole thing sorted out."

"Thank you." Demyx's voice was quiet and timid.

Yuffie smiled comfortingly, prompting him to continue. "You're very welcome. Now, are you comfortable enough to talk about it? We're not going to judge you, we just want to know what's going on." Zexion nodded, giving him a comforting smile.

"Yes. I'll talk about it." Demyx shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I-It started about…6 months after my step mom died. My real mother died giving birth to me, and my father was happy when Tifa, my stepmother, came along. She died in a car accident, during my freshman year in school." he took a swallow of the coffee sitting next to his plate, and cleared his throat before he continued.

"He was devastated when Tifa died. Dad barely came out of his room for a month, I lived with one of my friends then. When he finally got…better, he wasn't the same." His eyes started to water. "Everything was fine for a few months, but then he started- he started to hit me." Demyx's voice dropped to the barest whisper. "I don't have any other family, so I couldn't leave him. He stopped working a while back, so I had to get two part-time jobs so I could pay the rent and buy food." his voice turned wry. "Amazingly enough, he always found money for booze."

Zexion scooted toward him and put a comforting arm around his shoulders. Demyx leaned into the embrace, still talking. "He hit me all through high school. Sometimes I'd even have to skip school because I was too bruised and blooded up. Twice a week I got food from the church nearest to my house- and booze for him as well." His voice was venomous. "Two weeks ago, he got even worse. He started drinking more, I guess, he found out about you, Zexion. A week later I had to stop going to school." Yuffie looked puzzled, but Zexion just shook his head and gestured for Demyx to continue. "I couldn't even go out of the house, after that."

Yuffie's hand tightened on the table, her knuckles turning white as she fought her anger.

"I've been saving money for a few years now, the bonuses I got at work and some odds and ends, so I figured if I ran away I'd at least be able to rent an apartment for a while." he stopped, his story told.

Yuffie let loose a stream of expletives not normally hear in polite company, her motherly instincts screaming. She calmed herself quickly, however, and spoke with an anger-laced, but very controlled tone. "Demyx, dear, you can stay with us as long as you'd like. I can't imagine you want to go home anytime soon, and we do have an extra bed-"

Demyx got up and threw his arms around her gently, trying to convey his gratefulness without causing himself bodily injury.

Yuffie blushed, feeling properly thanked, and prepared to have another son.

-.-

Zexion didn't talk much, Demyx noted with a wry smile, The boy maneuvered around the house with the grace of having lived there for a very, very long time, and it was nice to see the boy in this home element. He seemed more comfortable here than anywhere else, and more than once the blonde caught an unnervingly unfamiliar smile on his face.

He was there for a week before the Police got involved.

X

Demyx just nonchalantly strolled into his first period class when the teacher instructed him, fear evident in her eyes and manner, to go to the principal's office immediately.

His first clue that something was amiss ran straight into him. A gruff police officer reached out to steady the blonde as they crashed into each other, and, upon learning his name, was kind enough to escort Demyx directly to his destination.

His second clue was the presence of his father, clean-shaven and well-dressed, in the office. He felt his father's strong, flabby arms wrap around him painfully- what looked like an innocent, fatherly embrace was actually just a reminder of how much he'd have to suffer for what he had done.

The Policeman looked on obligingly, watching the eerily cheery man welcome his son, warned Demyx about the consequences of running away, and left soon after.

Demyx talked to the principal for a few minutes, apologizing for the trouble 'he' had caused, before returning to class with the promise to return home promptly after school weighing on him heavily. He found Zexion and the hallway between 6th and 7th periods, and they cut the rest of the day's classes to sit together on the roof of the school.

They sat on the edge of the rail around the perimeter of the roof, wary of falling. Zexion fiddled absentmindedly with his hair, flitting from one nervous habit to another, before settling down and mindlessly rubbing the scars on his left arm with a trembling thumb. "So you have to go back?" Zexion's voice was quiet, but it carried through the thin air, and echoed around them with an eerie, discordant sound.

"Yeah." Demyx leaned against Zexion's side nonchalantly, taking comfort in his companion. "They know I was staying with you… I'm sorry. You'll probably get a good talking -to later."

"It's alright. Mom and I expected it. Will you be…alright? Alone with your father?" Zexion's voice was carefully schooled into a mask of pity and indifference.

"No. I won't. But there isn't much I can do, I have to wait until I'm 18 before I can get away- this fall. College is already taken care of, I'm going to live with my cousin Leon in Hollow Bastion and go to the community college there." His smile faltered momentarily. "You'll come and visit me, right? I don't think I can do this without you."

"Off course I'll come see you…but won't your father mind?" Zexion murmured sadly as he pulled the distressed blonde into his arms. "Unless, of course, he doesn't know. I know my mom would be alright with me sneaking out to check on you after dark."

Demyx smiled grimly. "I'll leave my window open for you. Wait until 10 or 11 though- by then he should be drunk enough to pass out pretty quick."

"Alright. We can do this- it's only for a few months." Zexion stroked the blonde's hair absentmindedly. "He'll be pretty angry tonight, won't he?" Demyx nodded and frowned.

"Then I'll come early, and wait for you."

The blonde shivered involuntarily, and Zexion could feel tears falling on his shirt, soaking through the thin fabric, but he couldn't tell if they were Demyx's or his own.

! Done!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Demyx shivered as the window opened, the warm summery temperature had plummeted as night fell, and a gust of chilly night wind blew into his room. It smelled like flowers and grass and fresh dirt and water, and he lay back in his bed carefully, avoiding his wounds and scrapes to watch his savior-turned-best friend-turned-boyfriend clamber into his room.

Zexion's hair was frazzled from the humidity, but those signature shiny-blue spikes still fell perfectly arranged over half of his face, masking his right eye entirely and ending an inch above his chin. The cool teen's shoe caught briefly on the lip of sill, but Demyx muffled the resulting crash of boy-on-floor with a well-placed fake cough. Zexion dusted himself off quietly, pulling his shirt back down over his pale stomach and running a shaky hand through his tidy hair.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. My psychiatrist kept me longer than I hoped, and I had to call Dad when I got home and he took forever and then I burned dinner twice and -" his mumbled apologies and explanations were silenced by a quick kiss.

That was one unexpected plus garnered from his new relationship with the blonde. Their tentative friendship and comradery had developed over the last few weeks into a stable relationship, and they both came to enjoy Zexion's late-night visits thoroughly. Demyx's father had yet to discover his son's late-night visitor, and after a few weeks the two had a schedule pretty much mapped out. Zexion came over after dinner every night and spent the night bunking with his boyfriend, escaping back to his own home in the early hours of the morning with a quick kiss and a promise to see each other soon. Zexion certainly didn't mind waking up snuggling with Demyx every morning, and if the blonde had a problem with the arrangement he certainly didn't say a word about it.

The blonde had two steady part-time jobs, so he spent most of his time away from the house, but the time he _did_ spend at home in the company of his father was absolutely terrifying. When he wasn't actively hurting him, the man was either screaming or fuming in a corner. That a man of such little intelligence could be so conniving and wily frightened Demyx to no end, and he relished the time he got to spend outside.

He'd picked up his second job since the end of the school year, and was well on his way to working his way up the social and management ladders. He's acquired a few new acquaintances- Luxord, Xaldin, Axel, Vexen, Marluxia. Everyone was so kind and understanding, he couldn't help but love the time he spent with them. He'd had coffee with Axel a few times, exchanging advice about relationships and life, and he felt comfortable enough to confide in him. He told the man everything about the past few years, and was rewarded with sincere sympathy and compassion. He counseled and coached Axel through his blossoming relationship with Vexen, their handsome blonde co-worker, and was rewarded with the fiery redhead's unending gratitude. Life was pretty awesome, if you didn't count his home life, but Demyx knew it couldn't be so idyllic for long. Murphy's law- everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

X

Zexion had sneaked through the open window silently as usual, the sound of feet shuffling on the carpet the only noise that alerted his love to his arrival. He merely shuffled and scooted over on his soft king bed, leaving a warm pocket of space for his boyfriend. Work had been more arduous than usual that day, a frightening bit of foreshadowing, a hint of things yet to come. Zexion toed his wet sneakers off by the still-open window, obligingly laid down by his blonde, and nuzzled his head into the slight-taller man's chest. "How are you?" his words came out somewhat muffled, merely a rumble of breath and sound against Demyx's warm, comfy chest.

"I'm doing fine. Axel and Vexen got in a fight last night and were both bears to work with. I spilled coffee all over my pants, too." He sighed, and his breath ruffled a few stray hairs on the top of the bluenette's mussy head, the topmost badly in need of dye. "Gonna dye your hair again soon?"

Zexion smiled against the soft pillow of the blonde. "Yeah, I s'pose. You should call off work for a day- you can come over to my place and help me. I know Mom's been dying to see you, and Dad got back from his trip yesterday, so I could finally introduce you two."

He sighed contentedly. "Maybe Monday of next week? I'm already off that day, so it won't be a proble –" he heard something and was suddenly silent. "What was that?"

"I-I don't know… probably just the wind."

Zexion relaxed again, melting back into the comfortable embrace. Demyx knew how worried the man got about him, how much he worried that their relationship would bring Demyx nothing but trouble, and he was touched by his sentiment.

The blonde scooted down gently, bringing himself to the other man's level. He pressed their foreheads together, and after a few seconds they closed their eyes and breathed in sync. "I'm glad you're here, you know. I wouldn't have made it this far if it wasn't for you. I-I love you."

Zexion's eyes widened as the bedroom door flew open. In the doorway stood a stormy figure, concealed in shadow, foreboding and more frightening than either could have imagined. The figure was silent for a few seconds, drunkenly absorbing the situation, before the room erupted.

The two moves simultaneously, Demyx's arms raising reflexively to protect himself as Zexion made a fervent dash for the window. He managed to get one foot out in the air before a hot, meaty hand caught him by the hair and pulled him back inside. The man holding him captive was huge and strong, but still Zexion fought like a wild cat, scratching and hitting what little he could in a desperate attempt to get free. Demyx was cowering, huddled into a ball on the far side of the bed, blankets pulled around him like a shield.

That massive arm finished pulling him backward, and released him onto the hardwood floor with a dull 'thump'. The window was slammed shut so forcefully the glass vibrated, threatening to shatter. The only sound, aside from Demyx's weak whimpers, was the heavy, alcohol-laden gusts coming out of his father's mouth. There was no way to escape now, every possible exit was blocked, and Zexion had never been so afraid in his life.

X

Yuffie slammed her cell phone down on the counter, having just received her son's voicemail for the hundredth time, and heaved a sigh. No word in two days, no phone calls or text messages, no clue where her so could be. Her husband Vincent was equally distressed, but refrained from the girlish screeching and bouts of tears. From what he'd gathered, his son had last gone to his boyfriend's house around 11 p.m., two days past. If there was a chance Zexion was in town, that was where he would be.

Vincent called off work, called the police, and went to search the town. He knocked on doors, pasted flyers to poles, and made countless pay-phone calls all over town. At the end of the long, long day he stumbled home, utterly exhausted, and his wife was waiting impatiently by the door, tapping her toes and fuming. She rounded on him as soon as he entered the door. "Did you find him? Where is he? Is he okay?" She was near hysterics.

"No. There's not a trace of him. I've looked everywhere I can think of. I can't really go up to that other boy's door and knock, then ask where my son is." Yuffie just wailed miserably, burying her face in her husband's chest and crying. The phone rang, once, twice, but he just held her tighter, praying for their son to come home.

"They left a message." Yuffie whispered 15 minutes later, as they sat down for coffee at the kitchen table.

Vincent nodded. "Might have some information." He stood and maneuvered through his cluttered living room to the answering machine. His finger on 'PLAY', he listened to the machine's inane babble until a thin, reedy voice came on.

"Dad? Mom? I'm sorry to worry you. I'm… in a bit of a jam, actually. Demyx's father he- well, he caught us and he wasn't…very happy. It might've been the whiskey, but I don't think he likes me very much." His characteristic dry wit was there, but his parents, Vincent stock still over the machine and Yuffie frozen in the kitchen, could hear the tremor in his voice and knew how serious it must be for Zexion to sound that frightened. Nothing ever scared their son, not the time he nearly drowned, the time he'd broken his neck, not even death would scare their brave little boy.

"Vincent, he- " he shushed her as Zexion's voice continued.

His word trembled, they could almost feel his fright and worry. "I waited until he fell asleep to call, but… Demyx is in pretty bad shape. I suppose I am too, but he-" his voice cracked. "I don't know if he'll make it. If I call an ambulance, the sirens will wake him up before they can get here and… he'd be even more angry." They could hear him shift on the other end, and a small whimper cut the silence.

"Demyx!" Vincent and Yuffie heard a commotion, and the line went dead. She turned to him, wide eyed, and was about to speak. Her husband merely put a finger on her lips.

"I'll bring them back."

X

A few miles way, a certain blonde's house was very, very dark. Zexion and Demyx sat upstairs on the bed, huddled together and quiet as can be. Zexion had called his house as a last-ditch attempt, but so far there had been no response. He was frightened, more frightened than he'd ever imagined he could be, but he tried to keep a cool head. Demyx's breathing was getting shallower by the minute, and he was still covered with blood despite Zexion's effort to bind his wounds. He surmised several of the boy's ribs were broken, he had a severe concussion too, and had lost a lot of blood – things weren't looking so good.

Demyx had regained conscienceless in the middle of his phone call, but he was sure his parents had gotten the point. He would have gotten out on his own, carried Demyx far away, if it hadn't been for his current condition. His right leg screamed every time he moved, it might be a broken thigh, and every time he moved his left arm he nearly went unconscious from the pain. Other than that, he deemed himself fine, a bit bruised, certainly bloodied, but nothing too horrid.

Demyx, however, was a different matter. He slipped in and out of consciousness infrequently, brief periods of lucidity spoiled by hours of silence. He was awake now, but had his eyes closed while Zexion cradled his head in his lap, running loving fingers through his soft hair. The bright spikes pointed in all directions, some of them dyed red by blood.

He, too closed his eyes, leaning his head back and resting it on the cool wall. He wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring, but for now they were alive, and together.

X

Vincent's tires screeched like nails on a chalkboard as he turned a sharp corner, following his wife's hastily scrawled map along the dark streets. No lights were on in the house he stopped in front of, nothing stirred, but his parental instinct told him this was the place.

He pulled the car up to the curb, idling for a few seconds with his lights off, before shutting off the engine and heaving a sigh. He knew how to defend himself and incapacitate an attacker, but he always hated these angry confrontations.

The heels of his boots clicked softly as he sneaked up the long driveway, coming to a stop outside the silent door. He pressed an ear to it, listening intently for any sign of life, before trying the handle.

Locked.

He backed up a few steps, prepared himself, and ran full tilt at the door. The first time he hit it, it splintered faintly. The second time, he heard and ominous cracking noise.

The third time was a charm.

The wood split like butter as his shoulder rammed into it and he barely managed to right himself as he stumbled inside. It was pitch-black inside and he waited for a few seconds to let his eyes adjust before he ventured farther.

His footsteps were muted by soft, thick carpet as he padded slowly down the hall, his breath jarringly loud in the complete silence. Behind a closed door he heard faint strains of a catchy TV commercial jingle and he smiled grimly. He'd find the boys first, and worry about the father later.

The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar, and Vincent could hear muffled whispering from the room within. He edged the door open carefully, wincing as the hinges squeaked faintly. The noise in the room stopped abruptly, and he stole in slowly. He was silent for a few seconds, standing in what he surmised was the center of the room, before whispering, "Zexion?"

X

Yuffie fidgeted nervously, perched on the arm of the couch closest to the phone. The cup of tea she'd made sat on the table next to her, forgotten and cooling slowly. It had been an hour, and her nerves were pulled taut as a wire. Every noise in the night made her jump, the house groaning made her shake, but she stayed vigilant in her post and listened intently.

She berated herself mentally as she fiddled with the hem of her shirt. Why be so frightened? She was the great Ninja Yuffie. What could spooky night-monsters and spooky sounds do to her of all people? She rested, reassured. She pulled her cup of tea closer and waited a while longer.

Seconds later, the phone rang. Scrambling towards it she knocked her cup over onto the white of the couch, but no matter, stains came out. She picked up the phone with her shaking hands and brought it to her ear, plugging the other with a finger to block out the sounds of the wind in the trees.

"Hello? Vincent?" She was nearly frantic. "Did you find them? Are they alright? Should I-"

Her husband cut her off.

"They're just fine- well, sort of… they'll both need medical attention, but other than that…"

Yuffie's screech was almost supersonic. "Vincent, don't you dare lie to me! Is my baby okay? Under her anger her husband could hear the panic surfacing, and he sympathized.

"He's fine. They're both hurt, but it's not life threatening. I'll take care of this and meet you back at the house in a little while, alright?" She nodded, but before she could speak the line went dead. She lay back on the couch, heaved a sigh, and went to get things for her boys. 'My boys?' She thought, her talkative mouth quiet for once and pinched in a sad smile. She patted her stomach fondly, remembering the swell of Zexion inside her.

"Yes. My boys."

X

Vincent flicked his phone shut without waiting for and answer. Yuffie would worry him to death one day, but now was not the time. He turned back to the bed that held his son and his boyfriend and grimaced. The blonde (was it Demyx?) had fallen unconscious again, and his son looked sick and weary.

"I'll call an ambulance, but I have to finish something first." He bowed out of the room and pushed his bangs out of his eyes. Seizing the elastic band around his waist, he pulled his hair into a messy ponytail and stalked down the hall. Stopping at the door behind which the light of an unwatched television program flickered feebly, he paused for a moment to collect himself before pushing his way into the room.

The door swung silently on the well-oiled hinges, coming to a rest against the dingy wall behind it with a muffle thump. Vincent's eyes adjusted quickly to the new light, and he surveyed the room dispassionately. Multitudes of beer cans littered the cluttered floor, mountains of metal sweeping from wall to wall in a chain broken only by the dirty plates of long-forgotten food.

He toed his way through the sea or detritus until he made his way to the center of the room. A man, clad only in graying boxer-briefs and a greasy-looking wifebeater, sat sleeping in the recliner set before the television. His mouth gaped open like a fish and there was a remnant of a cigarette clutched between the think, piggy fingers of his right hand. Ashtrays on the table beside him overflowed, spilling their ashen bounty and forever damaging the wood on which they rested.

The man himself was generally unremarkable- a pudgy, tall figure with nicotine yellowed teeth and a receding hairline. His gut poked out of the bottom of his shirt, his furry legs were propped precariously on a footstool, and he reeked of alcohol.

Vincent stood over him for a few seconds, the rage inside him coming to a fiery peak and then slowly condensing into one cool, deadly ball of contempt.

He reached down slowly and shook the man's shoulder, resisting the urge to instead clasp his cool hand around the man's throat. The only response garnered was a groan and a sigh, the man merely shifted his weight around and settled back into a deep sleep.

After 3 more failed attempts, Vincent was fed up. He raised his hand and slapped the man on his stubbly, five o'clock shadow cheek. The bleary little eyes opened quickly and the yellow, smelly mouth let out a roar. Vincent ignored this and clapped his other hand over that gaping mouth and furious red nose, making sure he got the attention he deserved. The man struggled for a second before staying still, and Vincent removed his hand. As the stranger gasped for air, he spoke.

"You are Demyx's father, are you not?" His queer eyes flashed near inhumanly in the light of the TV screen. The man, now evidently too scared to speak, merely nodded.

Vincent smiled. "And what is your name?"

The man stuttered out, "Loz. M'name is Loz." Vincent's smile tightened, and he sighed good-naturedly.

"Loz, is it? So. My son is sitting in your son's bed with several broken bones, minor blood loss, and a whole host of other unpleasant injuries. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Loz shook his head. "You don't? Nothing at all? Then how about this. Your son is dying. He's unconscious and I need to call an ambulance pretty quick, but I want to get this over with beforehand.

Loz just shook his head. "I don't know anything about that!"

"Alright." Vincent grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him up to eye level. "You really have no idea?" Loz began to shake his head again, but Vincent drew back his fist and landed a punch directly to the poor man's nose. He could feel the breaking of Loz's nose throughout his arm, and his hand was red with blood when he pulled it away.

"My name is Vincent Valentine. I am a professional assassin, mercenary, and bounty hunter. You have harmed my child. I suggest you confess before I break something a little more vital than your nose."

Loz trembled. "F-Fine." he spat out a mixture of saliva and blood, staining the already filthy carpet. "I-I didn't want your b-boy touching my s-son." His mouth twisted into a frown.

"But you still beat him regularly, though no one else may touch him?" Vincent interjected, his hand moving from the collar of Loz's shirt to his neck as he wrapped his long, thin fingers around his windpipe.

Loz gasped for air to finish his explanation. "Demyx is mine! He's all I have left of my wife, it's just-" he paused for air, " that brat took her from me! If he hadn't been born, she wouldn't have died and none of this would have happened! She made me promise to take care of him, but every time I see him I just-" he was struggling to form sentences. "I don't- I can't- he took her!"

Vincent grimaced and loosened his grip on Loz's neck. "So you blame the son your wife loved so much? She sacrificed herself to bring him into the world and you go and beat him? Your wife gave you a gift, stupid man. You preach about how he took her? She loved him enough to die and you waltz off and break your promise to her!" He was shouting at this point, and Loz had shrunk away from him.

The man, again able to breathe, stumbled over his words in his fright. " I didn't m-mean it that way, I mean I loved- "

"You loved what?! You don't love your son, if you hurt him like this. You can't have loved your wife, to disobey her dying wish and harm the thing she held so dear! You sicken me, Loz." Vincent glared into the man's frightened, watery eyes. "Do you blame Demyx for your second wife's death, too? He has done nothing, sir. He has stayed by your side for 18 years because you're his father, because he loves you. And how do you repay him? By locking him away, hurting him and the ones he loves?" Vincent's voice had dropped to a whisper, quiet and sharp and menacing.

Loz was crying.

X

Vincent strode down the hall, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and dialing 911. "Yes. My name is Vincent Valentine, I'm gonna need an ambulance at 335 Park Avenue, I've got two teenage boys in pretty bad shape and a middle-age man with a broken nose-" he paused and listened. "Yeah, send Reno and Rude. No questions asked, right?" He smiled and flicked the phone closed.

"Boys? The EMT will be here soon. Zexion, I got the Turks so no one's gonna ask anything about it. I assume Demyx will be staying with us for now?"

Zexion nodded and bent his head. Combing blonde hair back from the sleeping boy's face, he sighed. "We can't leave him here." He looked up at his father. "You didn't beat his dad up too badly, did you?"

"No, not that bad. Just a broken nose. He'll he fine, until I sue him. Vincent grimaced, "Yuffie must be out of her mind with worry. You really should call her before she freaks out and comes here." Zexion nodded. "You need to borrow my cell phone?"

Another affirmative nod, and Vincent handed his phone to the boy. He slipped out of the dark room when he heard his wife's voice on the other line. "Zexion? Oh honey I was so-" the door clicked closed. He could hear the ambulance sirens drawing closer, and he peaked into the living room again. Loz was still crying, face covered in blood and tears as he cradled his head in his hands. Vincent just shook his head and continued down the hall.

He opened the front door just as the ambulance finished it's trek up the driveway, and he smiled as Reno and Rude hopped out. The two were businesslike but jovial, smiling and joking with him as they pulled a gurney out of the van and pulled it into the house. Loz was escorted out stoically by a frowning Rude as Reno loaded Demyx into the car and carried Zexion out soon after.

"Mom's going to meet us at the hospital, so you should wait at the door for her." Vincent grimaced again, not relishing facing his distraught wife. Rude jumped in the ambulance and started it as Reno reached for a handshake.

"Nice doing business with you, Vince." He winked and pocketed the roll of $50 bills Vincent had slipped him. "I promise, not a word. No questions asked." Vincent nodded sternly. "But I gotta ask. How did this all- " he gestured vaguely at the house with one hand "- get started?"

Vincent shook his head. "It was all just a misunderstanding."

X

Demyx woke up in a bed he'd never seen before, surrounded by strange people and queer metal instruments. He'd not been in a hospital since his mother's death, much less tucked into a bed and pumped full of drugs. He blinked feebly, assessing his condition. His head throbbed with what must be the biggest headache he'd ever experienced, and there seemed to be a heavy weight weighing on his chest. His left arm was eerily painless, but stiff, a huge contrast to the rest of him. Even his toes throbbed, but his right arm seemed to be encased in something warm and soft. He turned his (aching) neck to look down, and his eyes filled with tears when he saw what it was.

Zexion was curled up to his side in an almost-fetal position, with his arm and leg in a cast. His blue hair was clean looking but disheveled, spread out like a fan on the pillow beneath his head. His face was serene in sleep, marred only by a few light bruises over his cheekbones and a small cut over his left eye. His good arm and good leg were wrapped around Demyx's own body, attached to him like a koala to a tree branch. He was snoring faintly, his hair fluttering in the wind of his breath. The room emptied of doctors and nurses slowly and Demyx snuggled closer to Zexion, pulling his blanket and moving his head to share a pillow with the sleeping boy. He moved his numbed left arm and brushed the blue hair out of his love's eyes as his own slipped closed, the healing medicine in his system lulling him back to the soft shores of sleep.

X

Zexion woke up a few seconds later, although he didn't know that. Demyx's face was an inch from his own, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly ajar. He was seized with a sudden urge and leaned forward, seizing the blonde's lips with his own. Demyx, only sleeping lightly now, woke up instantly and responded gratefully. The boys spent a solid quarter hour just kissing and touching, affirming their love and assuring their safety.

Yuffie coughed discreetly when she opened the door, and the boy's heads shot up like bullets out of a gun. Demyx's hands had found their way up Zexion's shirt, and he discreetly removed them as Yuffie looked on with amusement.

"Hello, boys." She was grinning like a fool as she sat herself down on the edge of the hospital bed. "I'm glad you're awake, Demyx. Zexion was absolutely distraught when you -" Zexion shot her a glare and shushed her. "Well anyway, we're all happy you'll be alright. Your…father is in the next room, if you want to see him…"

Zexion and Demyx shook their heads, simultaneously vehement. Yuffie grimaced and nodded. She turned to leave, after kissing Zexion on the forehead and ruffling Demyx's hair affectionately, and Vincent stalked in. He had ditched the suit and was back to wearing his eerily moving red cape and odd shoes, and Demyx gulped as he paused in front of them, face blank and stoic. He leaned down to Demyx's level and looked him in the eye for a few long seconds, before wrapping his long arms around the boy and crushing him with a gentle hug.

Zexion looked up at his father and something flashed between their eyes as the tension in the room slowly grew unbearable. Demyx stared at Vincent as the man's glowering stare got even more oppressive, and he noticed something odd. The side of the man's mouth seemed to be… twitching, pulling at the corner spasmodically. Demyx, stumped and perturbed, looked over at his boyfriend. Zexion was doing it too, and his eyes were beginning to water. The blonde looked back up at Vincent just as the tall, serious man let out a high-pitched snicker, and soon both of the frightening men were roaring with laughter, so much so that a nurse had to come give Zexion more pain medication for his now-aching broken ribs.

Vincent just smiled as she chastised them for disturbing other patients and Zexion could barely mask his grin. When she ambled out again, assured she'd set them right, they contented themselves with a few good-natured chuckles. Vincent kissed his son on the forehead, pausing to sigh into his hair, before slipping out the door after the nurse.

"He really like you, you know." Zexion whispered as the door clicked shut.

Demyx stared at him incredulously for a second before guffawing, astonished. "He likes me? I was under the impression he despised me."

Zexion merely blinked at him. "He hugged you. It took two years of dating before he would even hold my mother's hand. He likes you." Demyx just sighed and nodded, weary. Zexion snuggled back under the blankets and pulled Demyx closer to him, caressing his face gently with one hand. Doctors bustled in and out quietly, mindful of the two boys lying together silently, staring into each other's eyes lovingly as they slipped into sleep.

-end o' chapter 6 …

**A/N- So? So? Was it okay? I was struggling with this 'fight' scene for a week,**

**but I'm alright with the outcome if you guys are…now I have to get started**

**on THE FINAL CHAPTER. Yeah, that time has come again. Bye, loves.**


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hey everybody! ChottoMatte here, with another Somnium Dulcis update! Sorry it's been a while, but the wait should be worth it! This is the FINAL chapter, so it took a while to tie it all together. Somnium has been such an awesome experience - the first chapter story I've actually FINISHED. I'm so proud. I hope you like it and I thank you for sticking with me thusfar. So, for the final time... R&R?

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Demyx grunted as he lifted the box into the back of the van, his shirt riding up to expose inches of soft, sweet skin to the unforgiving summer sun. Levering the cumbersome load into its appropriate position, he paused to catch his breath, hands on his knees and bent to face the ground. He blew sticky blonde hair out of his field of vision nonchalantly, puffing air like a steam engine.

Ice-cold fingers traced his exposed flesh gently, and he jumped at the contact. Turning around, he whined, "Zexion!" for it was his blue haired lover who had so cunningly sneaked behind him, "How is it you're wearing long sleeves and not even sweating?"

Zexion merely shrugged, wrapping his cool, soft arms around his lover's waist and resting his head on the blonde's back. "But Dem, I love it when you get all hot and sweaty." he smiled, coy but innocent.

Demyx snorted indignantly, though the blush powdering his cheeks had nothing to do with the heat. "That doesn't get you off the hook, babe. Just how many boxes of books do you plan on bringing with you? Dorm rooms are only so big, and we need all the room we can ge-" Zexion spun him around abruptly and stood on his tip toes to kiss the taller boy.

"I just figured…" he managed between kisses, gasping for air as he pushed his boyfriend up against the side of the van behind him, "Since we'll only need one bed…" His hand roamed lower, tracing down the blonde's chest and coming to rest at his waist, " we would have…" he slipped on, two, three fingers into Demyx's waistband and pulled them even closer, "a little extra room?" He glanced up shyly through a curtain of his dark hair and batted his eyelashes. "Right, Demyx?" the hand not creeping into his pants climbed up his shirt slowly, until he was gently teasing the blonde's hair and purring in his ear, "For me?"

Demyx gulped and was trying to open his mouth when they both heard the distinct slam of Zexion's front door. They were apart in seconds, Zexion breathing normally and cool as a cucumber, Demyx panting and flushed beet red.

Yuffie was dragging a large box down the sidewalk, evidently brimming with even more books. "Is there room for some more books, do you think?" she grinned at the tetris-like arrangement inside the van.

Zexion stalked over to his boyfriend coquettishly, wrapping his arms around his neck, gazing up at him and biting his lip. "I dunno. Is there, Demmy?"

Demyx swallowed thickly, blinking a few times as his face got, if possible, even redder. "I-I suppose"

The bluenette smirked and placed a kiss on his lover's lips before strutting inside. "I'm off for a few more boxes, alright love?" Demyx nodded, knowing Zexion hadn't seen him but also wouldn't bother to wait for his confirmation.

Yuffie watched her son's retreating back, smiling gently, happy but weary. "You've done wonders for him, dear." Demyx looked up from the boxes he'd gone back to packing in the van, surprised at what she'd said. "I was so worried, before you two met. He was so trapped and sad, I couldn't help him at all, I couldn't do anything to stop it-"

"Yuffie." Demyx cut her off as her voice got more and more frantic. "You did a wonderful job. If you hadn't, would we be where we are right now?" She sighed and shook her head. "There. Now, help me lift this."

"Alright, alright." She helped him heave a few of the weightier ones in, until there was just enough room for whatever Zexion managed to dredge up inside. "Speaking of my boy," she huffed as they plopped themselves down in the shade of a tree, on the cool cement of the sidewalk, "how exactly did you two meet?"

Demyx stared into space for a few seconds before murmuring, "It was in the bathroom… we were both lost and… lonely, and he helped me out… for me, it was love at first sight."

Yuffie smiled softly, crooning a song as Demyx leaned back to rest his head in the grass. He blew a few strands of hair and blades of grass off his forehead and closed his eyes, instantly asleep. A teen boy exhausted on hot summer day. Yuffie chuckled and stood up quietly, wincing as her aging body creaked and groaned, bones snapping into place as she stretched stiffly.

She slipped through her open front door into the cool, dark cave of her house to seek out her son. She found him in the bathroom, rifling through the shelves and drawers and dumping products in a bag. He didn't notice her standing there, so she stood and watched him for a few seconds. He'd gotten taller over the past year, his body finally growing to match his gangly-big hands and feet. She blushed when he fished a pack of condoms out from under the sink, observed the expiration date, and stuffed them in his back pocket with a jaunty air and a little smile.

He was closing the cupboard and cleaning up when she knocked on the door quietly. He looked back at her and smiled. "Hey, mom." He finished his clean-up and straightened, pushing his hair out of his eyes and humming a little song as he washed his hands. "Need something?" He looked around and then back to her. "Where's Demyx?"

"Asleep in the grass." Zexion moved to the window and looked out at the lawn, his expression softening even more when he saw the blonde snoozing in the shade. Yuffie continued, "You never did tell me how you two met, anyway."

Zexion stared into space for a few seconds, summing up his thoughts. "It was in the bathroom, one day… it was like a fairy tale. He saved me…" he looked down and smiled, remembering something happy.

"Funny." She whispered. "That's the same thing he said." Zexion looked up and cocked his head, an unspoken 'huh?' She just smiled and nodded. "I'm proud of you, Zexion." She sidled over and draped an arm around his shoulder. "But make sure you use those condoms. Unprotected sex is hazardou-"

"WHOA, HEY! Not a conversation I want to have with my mother." He jumped away from her. She just nodded and smiled understandingly, sitting down on the edge of the tub to rest her weary feet. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to wake Demyx up so we can get on the road as soon as possible." He practically sprinted out in his haste to get away from her, and she chuckled a bit as she heard the front door slam shut.

She turned to the window to watch the two, and heard her husband come through the door behind her. "What are you - " he paused when he saw what she was staring at, riveted by.

Zexion had tiptoed across the grass until he was kneeling by his lover's side. He bent and pressed their foreheads together upside-down, and Demyx jumped at the touch. His eyes opened, wide enough at first and then wider at what they saw. The couple inside could hear his light laughter even through the glass and watched as the tackled their son to the ground, pinning him on the bottom and pressing their foreheads together again. They saw words exchanged, lips so close as to almost be touching. Demyx laughed again and rubbed their noses together, just as Zexion reached up to pull their lips together. They kissed quietly in the shade of a bright summer day, oblivious to the world around them.

Back inside, Yuffie and Vincent held hands as they quietly meandered down the hall and out the door, onto the front porch. "Hey! Lovebirds!" Yuffie yelled across the grass, ginning widely when both of their heads shot up. "Are we gonna stay here all day, or are we gonna get going?" She held up the rental van's key with her not-Vincent-holding-hand.

Demyx laughed. "Coming right away, just have to subdue your son, ma-am!"

Yuffie put her hand on her hip and retorted, "Ma'am? I thought I told you to call me Mom!"

(Some time later)

"Happy Anniversary, Zexy!" Demyx squealed as the bluenette, startled, removed his key from the lock and closed their front door.

"Anniversary?" Zexion looked shocked. "I didn't know we have an anniversary."

Demyx just nodded. "I know. I couldn't figure out when exactly is should be, so I just set it for the first day we ever had super-yummy-delicious SEX!" he did a little dance.

Zexion blushed faintly and looked down at his feet. "I get it. A whole year, huh?" he smiled gently. "I wish you'd told me earlier, I would have gotten you something while I was out."

"Don't worry! After dinner, I'll get what I want after dinner." He winked and walked back into the kitchen, swaying his hips to ensure his boyfriend was watching. "Now sit down while I finish this."

Zexion took his seat obligingly and dinner continued without a hitch. Demyx had only managed to burn one of the three courses, and they spent several hours just chatting over ice cream and wine before dinner culminated in a frenzy of kisses on the couch and other… less palatable activities.

X

For the next few days, Zexion was aloof, distancing himself from his lover in preference of the solitude of classes and the library. Demyx could empathize a bit – Zexion was writing the end of his memoir for his English class, and dredging up memories of his past was making him touchy, to say the least. The 'pre-Demyx' days, as the blonde had taken to calling them mentally, were a dark mystery that brought only pain and disappointment. He had an orchestral performance soon as well and practiced his violin whenever he had a free moment.

But nothing deserved this level of ignorance. He wasn't just distant during the day, they barely even spoke at night. He always seemed to be drained when he got home, and couldn't even bring himself to kiss his lover. Demyx found himself slamming down pots and pans with increasing frequency when he cooked dinner for one again, exasperated to the point of tears. He put water on the stove to boil, although no longer hungry, and went to sit on the couch in the living room. He sat in silence for a few seconds, willing himself not to cry, before a muffled buzzing interrupted his thoughts.

Zexion's light jacket, forsaken on this steamy day, was sitting in a corner, emanating a strange noise. The blonde stood warily and grabbed it, fishing through the pockets until his fingers closed around something hard and cool, still buzzing. He pulled the vibrating cell phone out, running his fingers over it gently. The black flip-phone was happily buzzing away, annoying the hell out of the blonde who held it. He levered it open with his thumb and it stopped, but a tiny icon proclaiming 'new text message: Axel' popped up on the screen.

His fingers hovered over the 'okay' button for a second, knowing reading his lover's texts would probably be construed as an invasion of privacy, before he pressed the button and started reading.

'Zex, u should rly tell him.'

Demyx just stared at the little screen for a moment, before diving into the 'old message' logs and reading the conversation from which the snippet came.

'He'd want to know, Zex.'

'I can't tell him yet, he'll freak out!'

'He'll understand, and you know it.'

'I don't know…'

The messages preceding the listed had all been deleted already, leaving the blonde wondering, distraught. Was there another woman? What was Zexion hiding? Why couldn't he tell the person he trusted most? He felt hurt and bewildered, crying just a bit as he curled up on his side on the couch. He'd wait until his lover got home to be worried. But deep inside, the seed of doubt was planted.

X

Zexion came home to an empty house and cold food on the table, steadily growing more congealed. Demyx was no where to be found, and the entire place was eerily silent. He threw his bag on the couch and went to investigate the food status in the kitchen, but paused at the fridge where a small note was pinned to it with a cheery magnet.

"Zexion.

I went to Axel's to talk to him about something- dinner's

on the table. I love you.

Demyx"

He smiled at the quick scribble and grabbed a can of coke out of the fridge. Balancing that, a tub of ice cream and some pretzels, he managed to maneuver to the couch. He flipped on the T.V. and watched mindlessly for a while, before getting depressingly bored and deciding to call his lover. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone- and his grasping fingers found nothing but air.

He reached in the other pocket, still bewildered. Nothing, a bit of pocket fuzz and some crumbs, no phone. Spying his jacket across the room he realized he must have left it in that pocket, which would explain it not going off all day. It wasn't like Axel not to call.

He unfolded his legs from their awkward couch position and snagged the arm of his jacket, dragging it towards him determinedly. He would call Demyx and see if he would come home early and spend some alone time with him, as they hadn't in a while. Zexion smiled, as he reached into the pocket- nothing. He groped at the other one fervently, but no metal lump resided in either of them. He flung the jacket away and lay back on the arm of the couch. If it wasn't with him, and it wasn't in his jacket… he knew he'd left it in there earlier that morning and no one but Demyx had-

Demyx. If Axel had called the little phone would have buzzed like crazy. Naturally, his inquisitive lover would have investigated. And maybe seen the text (or message left in his voicemail) which would prompt him to go talk to Axel about-

Axel. Shit, he'd need to hurry to shut Axel up before he said anything stupid.

X

Zexion sprinted up the innumerable flights of stairs, cursing all the way. He scrambled up the last few stairs and yanked the door to Axel's hall open. Pushing people left and right, he hurtled through the thin passage, ignoring the protests of those he disturbed. Pulling his keychain out of his pocket, he sifted through the metal until he found the single bright red key- Axel's emergency backup.

He calmed himself hurriedly, smoothing his hair and slowing his breath to a reasonable rate. Slipping the key into the lock, he deftly twisted the knob twice to the right and once to the left, the only was to pry the rickety old door open. What he saw inside did not please him.

Demyx was sitting on the edge of Axel's bed, shirtless, hugging his knees to his chest and sobbing like a baby. Axel was in a chair on the other side of the room, looking lost and trying to comfort the blonde without touching him. Zexion paused with the key in the lock and debated about backing out for a moment, but fortified himself and strode in.

Axel looked up at him quickly, a savior come to relieve him of his burden. But he just as quickly looked back down, seeing the stormy look on Zexion's face. "What did you do?"

Axel started mumbling, "I swear I didn't do anything. He came in all of a sudden, yelling about cell phones. He tried to get me to kiss him and he just ripped his shirt off and then he started crying and I pushed him away and I **SWEAR** this isn't my fault."

Zexion just nodded, knowing Axel wouldn't dare to lie to him at a time like this. He just shuffled through the heaps of trash on the floor until he was close enough to the bed, then sat and wrapped his arms around the crying blonde. He ran his fingers through the light hair as they rocked back and forth, Demyx's sobs slowly quieting to bare sniffles.

"What's wrong, Demyx?"

The blonde boy just shook his head, burying his face into Zexion's shoulder. "Tell me, love."

"Do y-you love me?" He sputtered, looking up at the bluenette. He wiped a tear from his cheek with a shaky finger and pushed some hair out of his eyes. "Because y-your cell phone h-had some w-weird message on it and-"

Zexion cut him off with a chuckle. "I'm sorry, Can I explain?" Demyx nodded weakly. "I love you. More than anything in the world, more than anyone else ever." He smiled and ruffled the blonde's hair again. "I'm sorry that I've been so distant lately. I have that concert coming up and those papers for Mr. Hersch- but no matter. I… wanted some alone time, to think about you and me."

Demyx looked startled. "W-what?"

"Ssh, shhh. I wanted to think about… about where we are as a couple." He pulled his arms from around the blonde boy and snagged a shirt off the floor to settle on his bare shoulders. "I wanted to do this more romantically, but considering the circumstances…" he trailed off, shaking his head as he slipped off the bed again, down onto one knee.

Axel looked on, enraptured as Demyx blinked unbelievingly.

"Demyx Minami. I love you. I had a little speech memorized for this bit I'm not going to bother with it now." He pulled a small, velvet-covered box out of his pocket and flipped it open with his thumb. "Demyx, will you marry me?"

Demyx was silent, completely enthralled but the ring in his boyfriend's hands. A white gold band with a pattern of waves, a diamond the size of his pinky nail nestled between two gorgeous deep aqua sapphires. He just sat there, for nearly a solid minute not breathing or blinking, as Zexion broke out in a sweat. When Demyx still hadn't answered, he moved to close the little box, thinking he'd been rejected. Before he could snap the spring-loaded lid down, a hand darted out and snagged the little black shape.

Demyx pulled the ring out of its protective pillow gently, as if afraid to snap it if he moved too quickly. He turned it over in his hands, marveling at the smooth stones and cool metal. He slipped it on his left ring finger and cradled his hand against his chest, bending his head and beginning to shake.

"Demyx? Demy-" Zexion called, questioning. The blonde flung his head back now, his laughter pealing in the small room and all down the lengthy hall. He was rolling on his back, laughing so hard he had to hold his ribs and wipe tears off his cheeks. "Demyx?"

"Of course I'll marry you! Oh god I thought you didn't love me and you were seeing some other lady and I-" Demyx blathered on, until he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe again. Zexion and Axel exchanged a furtive glance before bursting into laughter themselves. Zexion managed to pull himself back up onto the bed and wrapped his arms around the hysterical blonde, waiting until they could both breathe before kissing him senseless.

Even with his fiancée kissing him, Demyx couldn't stop grinning. Axel slowly calmed down as the pair got more passionate, Zexion whining a little as he was pushed onto his back and straddled by the excited blonde. Axel waited patiently, averting his eyes and not listening intently until he heard the whirr of a zipper being drawn.

"Whoa, whoa! Slow down, boys! This is my room!" He covered his eyes with his hand and made 'shoo' movements with the other. "You can celebrate later. I wanna see that ring."

Demyx pulled his hand grudgingly out of his uke's pants, zipping them up again and sighing. "I suppose we can wait. Here." He slipped the ring off his finger and handed it gently to the redhead as Zexion, flushed and a bit excited, sat back up and straightened his shirt self-consciously.

Axel turned the little bauble over carefully, admiring the size and clarity of the stones. He traced his pinky over the little etched waves and peered inside the band. "Hey. What does this say?" He moved it under the lamp on his desk, into the bright light. "Forever yours - " He sighed as he heard the blonde tackle his fiancée again. Turning, he directed, "Hey! No sex on my bed! At least… well, you know-" but they weren't kissing.

Demyx had wrapped his arms around the shocked bluenette's neck and was currently crying on his shoulder. Zexion looked bewildered and concerned, reaching up to rub the blonde's back in small circles. Axel passed the ring to him quietly, eyes on the crying boy. Zexion unhooked Demyx's left hand from his hair and slipped the ring onto the appropriate finger.

"Are you alright, love? Demyx nodded weakly, still crying. "Is something wrong?" He shook his head, a negative. "Then what's-"

Demyx sniffled and dried his eyes with the edge of the shirt he'd worn over to Axel's. "They're happy tears, deal." He swiped one last drop off his cheek. "They're sweet, not salty." Zexion's tongue caught the little drop as it fell.

"Yeah…" he wrapped his arms around the blonde's waist again, warming his cool fingers. He let his eyes slip shut and sighed, then turned to Axel. "It looks better on his finger than it did on that magazine, right? And those waves turned out perfect." Demyx cocked an eyebrow and looked back and forth between them inquisitively. Zexion just laughed. "Axel was the one who helped me pick out the stones and the setting, amateur jeweler he (surprisingly) is. Do you like it, sweet? If not we can always go back and get something different."

"I love it. Almost as much as I love you." He fingered it absentmindedly. "But not quite." He smiled and tipped his head back to kiss his fiancée's cheek.

Axel coughed politely and piped up, "Excuse me, but… can I go to bed now?" The couple on the bed laughed. Axel chuckled a bit, but paused, confused, a second later. "Hey, Dem? Why did you try to kiss me?" Demyx flushed and twiddled his thumbs.

"W-well I thought Zexion…" he batted his eyelashes at the bluenette coyly, he gulped, "didn't love me, and that you were… y'know… 'seeing' each other, and I wanted to get back at him…" he trailed off.

"So you kissed me?"

"It wasn't a very thought out plan, okay? I was distraught. And with those texts on Zexion's phone-" he glanced guiltily at the man, "what was I supposed to think?"

"Touché. They were a bit misleading." Axel conceded, smirking as he nodded sagely. "So when's the wedding?" The lover's eyes widened and Demyx started to stutter out-

"I mean, w-we just got- he just- we didn't think-"

"Kidding, kidding, Dem. Take a chill pill. And get out of my room!" The couple nodded, laughing, and made their way out the door, narrowly avoiding Axel's pillow-projectiles.

They clattered down the stairs and ambled home in amiable silence, holding hands and smiling softly. As they turned the corner onto their street, Demyx whispered, "Zexion?"

"Yes, love?"

"Are you gonna be the bride or am I?"

(fin, _Somnium Dulcis_)

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A/N- I'm actually crying a bit as I re-beta this, in preparation for putting it up on . I'd like to thank you all again, for sticking with me. You mean the world to me.


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